


Pandora's Box

by Shush7



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Fun and lighthearted, M/M, me being self-indulgent once again, no angst (unless it sneaks up on me)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2019-10-17 06:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17554922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shush7/pseuds/Shush7
Summary: Armie finds a black box under Timmy's bed. It has unforeseen consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you know my other works, then you'll also know that this is wayyy different from what and how I usually write. That being said, I've had SO much fun with this. Hope you'll have fun too.
> 
> Big thank you to Linds (I can't keep calling people L. and N. in my notes anymore because most of my fandom friends have the same initials, who would've thought, lol) who let me scream about this, and screamed along with me.
> 
> Also, a big thank you to Brooke who found the Perfect Dildo.
> 
> This is fiction, as always. (Unless..)

 

_Knock-knock_

_Knock-knock-knock_

“Hey, sorry, sorry,” Timmy opens the hotel room door and steps out of the way. He seems rushed, out of breath.

“Fucking finally,” Armie groans and instantly makes way to the mini-fridge to get a drink.

“Sorry, I know I’m _so late_ , my hair is just not co-operating, and I need to fix it before we go.”

“Does that mean we don’t have to go? Liz is not here anyway, and you know how deeply I despise award shows.”

“Do you?” Timmy feigns shock; laughs when Armie toasts to him with a tiny bottle of gin, “You work fast.”

“I do,” he downs the gin in one go.

“Okay,” Timmy stands in the middle of the room, both hands smoothing down his curls, “okay, I’ll just get my hair done and then we can go. Could you get my shoes in the meantime, please?” He points to the bed, “They’re in the black box under the–”

“Yeah, yeah, go fix your hair,” Armie cuts him off and Timmy practically _sprints_ to the bathroom.

“I’ll just be a sec!”

“No need to hurry on my account,” Armie shouts before kneeling next to the bed. He rolls up his shirt sleeves and reaches under it; pulls out a box, flicks it open and–

 _almost gasps_ ; barely manages to catch himself just in time to shut his mouth, to fucking cease breathing if necessary to avoid making noise because–

 _because that is most definitely the wrong fucking box_.

He doesn’t even blink, doesn’t even remember _how to blink_ ; just stares at its contents, even the Frank Ocean song in the background (fittingly, Lost) fading away completely.

 _There’s a dildo_. A thick dildo made out of matted glass, shaped like a twist – the spirals starting at the narrow tip, leading down to the wide base that is decorated with a blue rhinestone. It looks beautiful, luxurious, nothing short of a work of art. The stone sparkles in the soft light of the room; it invites Armie to touch, to rub his fingers over the seemingly cold surface. Yet he doesn’t dare to; simply stares, baffled, mesmerized.

The box is _full_. He sees an anal tap, handcuffs, _lube._ There’s something else under it, another layer of–

– _of things. Sex things._

 _Because it's a sex box._ Timmy has sex toys. It's Timmy's sex toy box. Timmy has a box that is filled to the brim with toys _that he uses to play with himself._

Armie's brain doesn’t work anymore; he’s not sure it has ever worked. _A glass dildo_. Timmy has one. It’s Timmy’s. _His Timmy’s._ The same Timmy’s who cuddles into him, who doubles over in laughter when Armie tickles him, who asks Armie to pet his hair, who is _pure_ and _angelic_ and apparently _fucks himself with a_ –

“Did you find them?” Timmy’s voice echoes from the bathroom.

Armie clicks back into reality, noisily gulps for air because he _finally remembers to breathe_. He hears Timmy’s bare feet padding closer and, acting on muscle memory alone, throws the lid back on the box and shoves it under the bed. It hits something else – the right box, perhaps. Armie grabs it, gets up so quickly he feels dizzy. Forces his face to be neutral, his breathing to be calm, his fucking hands to stop shivering.

“Yeah,” replies Armie just as Timmy rounds the corner, and he has never sounded so fucking high-pitched and breathless before.

Timmy quirks an eyebrow which is when Armie realizes _he can’t even look at his face_ , so he looks down at Timmy’s bare feet instead.

“Alright. Great. Thanks,” and Timmy sounds weird or maybe it’s just Armie who _feels weird._

He hands Timmy the box and tries to will his thoughts away. _All of his thoughts_ ; tries to make his mind blank, doesn’t even dare think about _the weather_ because something else might slip in. _Oh fuck, slip in. SLIP IN. Fuck, shit, he's doomed._

“Everything okay?” Timmy asks, confused.

“Yeah,” Armie coughs, “yeah. Superior.” _Superior?? Really?? That’s the casual word you’re going for??_

“You just– look a little red.”

“Nah, it’s–,” Armie shrugs, “the gin. Or, you know, I’m– small fever.” Fakes a cough, then a smile. Curses himself in his mind. _Stupid, fucking stupid._

“Shall we go?” Armie asks quickly.

Timmy eyes him suspiciously but nods, bends to put the shoes on. Armie has to look away and close his eyes. Just to be sure.

***

Timmy walks in front of him and Armie can’t stop staring at his ass. He’s ashamed of himself but–

 _Timmy has a dildo_.

And if Timmy has a dildo, his brain helpfully supplies, Timmy must use said dildo, otherwise he wouldn’t have it. At least not with him now. At a hotel. During promo.

Timmy uses that dildo. _Twists it into his body._

That dildo has been inside Timmy. All of it? It is fucking _huge_. How does it even–?

Armie stares at Timmy's ass. He's slim, narrow. His ass is small – Armie remembers that even from filming. Remembers Timmy's bare cheeks, remembers them pressed against his own naked body. There's no fucking way that dildo would even–

“Armie?”

“Huh?” Armie's head snaps up quickly. He was so lost in– everything he wasn’t supposed to be lost in that–

Fuck, he had completely zoned out staring at Timmy’s ass. With dedication. In his field of vision, where Timmy’s ass had been a few seconds ago, was now his face. Because he was closer now. Because he was staring at Armie now. _Because Armie had been staring at his ass._

“Are you sure you're alright?” and Timmy sounds worried which makes Armie feel like an even bigger asshole.

_Asshole. Fuck. Fuck._

“Yeah. Really.” Armie runs his hand through his hair, tries to act nonchalant, “Just a small fever like I said. Simple cold most likely, and the gin didn’t help; nothing to worry about. Carry on.”

He shuffles past Timmy as quickly as he manages. Maybe he can’t escape his thoughts just yet, but he can at least escape Timmy's ass. _For now._

***

The award show is a fucking mess. Half of the time Armie simply forgets what he’s doing there, all the while Timmy is being his beautiful, awkward self that everyone adores.

Timmy smiles, Timmy laughs, Timmy grabs Armie’s shoulder, his waist, his arm mid-speech. They pose for pictures and Armie reaches around him, places a hand on his hip. He hopes to god that Timmy doesn’t notice the shaking, the deep, forced breaths, the seven cocktails in two hours.

It’s the actual definition of torture. He’s in hell. And the fact that he’s in a stuffy suit, shaking hands with pretentious fuckers _at an award show_ doesn’t help. Timmy waving his hands and ass around everywhere doesn’t help either.

Nothing helps.

 _Everything_ reminds him of the dildo.

Even the ice in his cocktail reminds him of the twisted cold glass which is currently sitting in a black box under Timmy’s bed. _Together with his other toys._

Armie huffs and rubs his face with his hand. Closes his eyes and tries to think of green grass, butterflies, _his children for god sake_. Yes, _yes,_ he decides, his children are a good, safe thing to think about.

He recalls the time they were in the Caymans, playing in the waves, lounging on the beach. He smiles at the memory; it was so hot they had to buy new popsicles every 30 minutes.

_No. No, no, no, no, no._

_Oh god why’d he have to think of the popsicles?_

He groans audibly and stands up immediately to shake the thought away. Timmy practically jumps next to him.

“Jesus Christ, Armie. What the fuck, man?”

“I–,” Armie stutters, “Water.”

Timmy nods sceptically, asks, “Do you want me to come with you? Make sure you’re alright?”

“No!” and it comes out as a _shriek,_ so he says it again, softly this time, “No. No, thank you for caring. Just enjoy the event please and I’ll be back in a few.”

He makes his way through the crowd and steps into the toilet. Locks the door behind him, washes his flushed face with cold water. Glares at his reflection in the mirror, “Get your fucking shit together, Hammer.”

Then he looks down at his cock, which is _a little too visible_ through his tailored pants, “And especially _you_. You’re embarrassing me. You can’t be going around and _saluting_ your barely legal co-stars, okay. Get your shit together.”

***

The award show finally ends and Armie has never agreed with Einstein more that he does that night – time really _is_ fucking relative and the last four hours stretched to at least two full years. He even expects to find some grey hairs later, that’s how much mental labour was involved in keeping him relatively sane and his ‘normally charming self’ whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

He thinks he fooled even Timmy. He’s not proud of it but frankly, he’s too horny, ‘ _no, not horny but tense, yes, tense’_ to care.

***

That night, after the show, after taking the cab back to the hotel with Timmy, after retiring to their separate rooms, Armie lies awake. With Timmy and the Dildo both in the next room, with his and Timmy's beds against the same wall, Armie’s brain seems to only be capable of thinking about that.

Not because he wants to but– because he's just– _curious._

Does Timmy– is he–

He rubs his eyes, tries to fluff his pillow but ends up beating it into submission from frustration because _Timmy has a dildo and he might be putting it inside himself now._

Does he– ride the dildo? On the floor? Armie thinks of slim thighs under heavy strain, shaking when Timmy fucks himself on it. Thinks of bruised knees because Timmy would forget to use pillows.

“No, no, no, no,” Armie whispers.

Timmy must finger himself open. He must. He must slip those long digits inside himself. How many would he–?

“Stop,” he tells himself. “Stop,” he says again because it seems his cock didn’t hear him the first time.

“Stop getting hard thinking about your 21-year-old co-star. Friend. He's family to you. Stop. Please.”

He vows not to touch himself. Not that night. At least not thinking about Timmy.

“It's fine,” he says, ignoring that he’s never needed to tell himself “things are going to be fine” out loud before. “It’ll be fine,” he repeats.

 _“You're wrong,”_ tomorrow whispers. And Armie knows it's right.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks a bunch for the overwhelmingly positive feedback I've received on this! I'm glad you're having fun reading this as I've been having fun writing it. ;)
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy this Chapter of poor Armie being tortured. (Why am I enjoying this so much again?)
> 
> PS. A lot of you have asked me to provide images of the.. Toys, so please see notes at the end of the Chapter to see my sources of inspiration. ;)

 

***

The next day, Armie thanks all the deities in the world that Timmy is having breakfast with Pauline and not him. He barely slept and frankly, it had everything to do with his cock being the _hardest_ it’s ever been for the _longest_ it’s ever been.

The image of the dildo seems to have burned into his mind; eyes closed or open, that’s all he could see during the night.

He needs to regroup, and by regroup, he means a long wank in the shower. Maybe two. Possibly three. Only then will he be ready to face the world (and Timmy).

But as Armie learned the hard way last night that _time is relative_ , so is the definition of ‘long’ – he takes a fucking _second_ to come. He’s actually mortified but his cock seems pleased.

“Fuck you,” Armie huffs at it. But then he also _does_. Twice more. Yet he doesn’t think about Timmy, and he considers it a victory.

After, he takes a long walk and has a thick green smoothie for breakfast. It’s disgusting but a good cure after eight ( _nine?_ ) cocktails. ‘Cleanse your body’ says the sticker on it. Armie wishes it could cleanse his thoughts instead.

***

By lunch, he feels _relatively_ normal. Feels as if he’s gotten it out of his system and, well, in a way he did: three times that morning.

They have a screening at six, so he meets up with Timmy an hour before. They hug, and Armie manages to keep his dildo-related thoughts at bay. He keeps telling himself that it’s Timmy’s business what he does – _what he puts into his body_ –, that he should have no say in it. Or thoughts about it. _He shouldn’t even know, and he feels growingly guilty because he does._

“You feeling better?” Timmy asks after the hug and Armie definitely doesn’t notice how pink his mouth looks. _Did it look this pink yesterday? Before yesterday?_

“Yeah, a lot better. Sorry for–,” Armie pauses, swallows, “yesterday. For acting weird. I think I had the flu or something.”

Timmy smiles a soft smile, his eyes crinkling in the sunlight. He puts his hand on Armie’s jaw for a brief moment, then lets it drop to his shoulder. Squeezes. “I’m glad, man.”

Armie suppresses a shiver and smiles back.

***

However hard he tries during the screening, _and hard he does try – really, emphasis on the ‘hard’ –,_ he can’t keep his disobedient eyes off Timmy nor his thoughts away from _getting off_. Every second is torture; he’s flushed and wishes the ground would swallow him– _like Timmy’s body swallows the dildo._

His cock twitches every time someone says ‘peach’, ‘kissing’, or ‘nude’ during the first half of the Q&A. By the second half, things have gotten considerably harder in many ways – it only takes someone to say ‘Timmy’, or Timmy to say _anything at all_ for his cock to remind Armie of its existence.

He grips the microphone in his hand, grips his knee, grips the chair he’s sitting on until his fingers start to hurt yet his thoughts are relentless and unforgiving. His whole body feels on fire and even the two bottles of water he devours do nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Once they’re done, Armie locks himself in the nearest bathroom. _Once he’s done_ , fakes a family emergency and changes his flight to 14 hours earlier than planned. Every hour counts – _fuck, every second counts._ He needs to get away before he blurts out what he knows, before he’s caught on camera with a raging hard-on while expressing his adoration for Timmy, and before he sets his dick on fire from clearly excessive ‘activities’ (five and counting).

When he boards the plane, he immediately orders a whiskey. Then a second one.

Sipping on his third whiskey, he suddenly considers that _maybe_ the box was left in Timmy’s room by an earlier guest? _Yeah_ , he decides, he’ll go with that option, however unlikely it seems. It wasn’t _his Timmy’s._

When he lands, he realizes the air in LA has never felt this fresh before. It’s like after the madness of the last two days, he can finally breathe.

***

He makes sure everything goes on as usual. It’s not Timmy’s fault that _an earlier guest_ left things of _sexual nature_ in his room. Armie wouldn’t punish him for it.

 _Punish. Armie would punish him for it. Yes, he would very much like to_ _tie Timmy’s pale, dainty wrists together with black rope and –_

_No. No. No. No._

_Bros. Armie’s a good friend. Friends don’t tie each other up. No. Definitely not. Friends –_

text _,_ send each other stupid pictures, facetime. So, that’s what they do.

It’s easier due to the distance – Armie can look at him properly now without blushing, especially through a camera lens. Timmy looks the way he always does, smiles the way he always does, and it makes Armie’s heart swell (the way it always does).

He still wanks approximately 33% more than he normally would but that could be just a random coincidence. It’s not like he actually made calculations. (He did.)

It’ll be alright, he thinks, and maybe once or twice a day still says it out loud, too.

***

More days pass and the time of the next screening is inching closer by the minute. Armie doesn’t feel ready although it’s been exactly 9 days since ‘the incident’; he may or may not have been counting.

They meet at the hotel.

“Heeey.”

Armie sees Timmy’s smile before the rest of his face, the latter covered by a hood. His heart starts pumping faster, harder, so he takes a calming breath. Reminds himself there’s absolutely nothing to get excited about, although apparently his cock didn’t get the memo because it starts stirring, straining against his jeans.

“Fuck,” Armie mutters quietly, then “Hey,” but it comes out way louder than he intended as he pulls Timmy into his embrace. He briefly considered shaking Timmy’s hand to minimize physical contact and dangers associated to it but that would’ve been stupid. They’re _bros_ , they’ve always been _bros_. _Casual bros._

So, Armie adds, “Bro.” Cringes.

_You fucking moron. Can you not??_

Timmy pulls away, pulls off his hood, headphones. “Sure,” quirks an eyebrow, “bro.”

The silence is briefly filled with awkwardness.

“So, what’s up?” he continues, lets his eyes roam over Armie’s body. “You look thinner,” Timmy says, but it sounds like a question; Armie can see his eyes are worried.

“I fucking better; spent the whole time at the gym,” Armie chuckles, but it sounds awkward because, frankly, he wants to add the truth, which would be something along the lines of, _“I went to the gym twice every day, Timothée. You know why? Because I had to distract myself. I know you have a box, Timmy. A box of sex toys. And neither my brain nor cock are capable of focusing on anything else than your sex toys and what you may or may not be doing with them. I blocked it out but apparently your dildo has infiltrated my subconscious; I see it when I close my eyes. That’s what’s up. That, and my fucking cock.”_

Armie smiles a smile that probably looks robotic. It’s his ‘Ken smile’, all fake and plastic; a smile only those men are capable of who literally have no cock and balls between their legs. It’s the ideal ‘industry smile’; he’s mastered it perfectly over the years.

“Oh,” Timmy replies, gnaws at his lip. “Don’t overdo it, though. Your body is–,” he looks down at Armie’s hips, legs; clears his throat, scratches the back of his head, “I mean you– _you always look good_.”

Timmy is staring at the floor with determination now, a rosy colour tinting his cheeks, and Armie is glad they’ve cut eye contact because he feels his face burn up as well. They stand in silence for what feels like too long, both looking in different directions, blushing.

***

They have breakfast together, lunch and dinner, too. That day, the next one, the one after that.

The more time he spends with Timmy, the more he realizes it’s still _his_ Timmy, and although Armie sometimes has thoughts about ‘it’ (he doesn’t call it the ‘D word’ anymore, not even in his mind), he doesn’t _actively_ think about ‘it’ _._ He’s shoved the unwanted knowledge somewhere to the back of his mind, perhaps into a similar black box as Timmy keeps ‘it’. Or, in a similar box _the person who had stayed in Timmy’s room before him_ had kept ‘it’.

He feels more like himself. Like the Armand Hammer pre-black box incident. Like the Armand Hammer who doesn’t know that Timmy has ‘it’. (He doesn’t, right?) Like the Armand Hammer who doesn’t daydream about Timmy indulging in ‘it’-related activities.

In all honesty, he thinks he has a grip on it. Until one morning Timmy limps when he walks, winces when he sits.

Armie almost crushes the glass of orange juice in his hand. Gulps all of it down in one go. Watches Timmy grab a piece of toast, break it up between his fidgety fingers, put a piece into his mouth.

Armie wants to die. But he's sure his desire will burn him down sooner or later anyhow.

***

Armie feels a light weight on him, a bony knee between his legs, the other pressed to the side of his hip.

‘Armie,’ whispers a soft, husky voice from somewhere far away. ‘Armie,’ he hears again, but this time it’s closer, so close he can feel gentle lips faintly moving against his own.

‘Hmmmh?’ he opens his eyes to see Timmy hovering over him, dark curls all over his face. Armie can’t move his arms, can’t move his legs either. His body seems to be on lockdown; he feels _bound_ although he’s not.

‘I know you found my toys,’ Timmy says and Armie feels a surge of panic, of shame pooling in the pit of his stomach; he wants to say ‘Sorry’ but before he manages to, Timmy leans into him with a wicked smile, whispers into his ear, ‘I wanted you to.’

_That little shit._

His panic subsides _immediately_ , transforms into sizzling arousal instead. Timmy chuckles, playfully bites at his shoulder (when did Armie lose all of his clothes again?) and nuzzles Armie’s collarbone with his curly head.

‘Do you think I’m a good boy, Armie?’

Armie moves his mouth but no words come out.

‘Or do you think I’m a naughty boy for having all those toys?’ Timmy _pouts_ , pulls away, and of course he’s fucking _naked. Naked and sitting on top of Armie._

‘Do you want to be my toy, Armie?’ he continues, runs a hand over Armie’s stomach, twirls his chest hair around his long, thin fingers. ‘Would you like me to use you? _Ride you?_ ’

Armie wants to scream, to nod, to do fucking _anything_ but–

‘Or would you like to ride _me_?’ Timmy smirks, his eyes glimmering with mischief as he turns his back to Armie, gets on his hands and knees. He looks over his shoulder and wiggles his–

_Wiggles his baby pink pony tail._

_Fuck. Fucking hell._

He’s wearing a plug. A fucking _pony tail plug_ , and Armie can feel the faux hairs tickling his abdomen when Timmy moves his little ass from side to side, slowly, torturously slowly.

‘Don’t you want to ride your little pony, Armie?’ Timmy’s voice is raspy when he lifts his ass up even more, rests his head on stretched out arms.

 _It looks perfect. Timmy looks perfect_ , _presenting himself, offering to be taken._

Armie’s insides are _molten lava._ He feels that he can finally _move,_ so he grips the pony tail in his fist, pulls and–

_William Tell Overture starts playing somewhere in the background._

‘Huh?’

Armie’s eyes pop open. _His alarm is going off._

He looks at his fist with _terror_ – it’s gripping the front of his own fucking shirt where he imagined the pony tail to be _._ He’s panting, practically _choking_ on his own fucking drool, _and so hard he could cut through titanium stee_ l.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Armie groans and throws his phone across the room. As his luck would have it, that doesn’t even stop the noise.

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the toys I used for inspiration aaareee:  
> [ Timmy's dildo in the first Chapter. ](https://crystaldelights.com/epiphora-s-exclusive-glacier-blue-aqua-crystal-twist-dildo-limited-editions-317.html)  
> [ The pony tail. ](https://crystaldelights.com/baby-pink-crystal-minx-detachable-faux-pony-tail-plug-pony-tails-269.html)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait. As you can see, the chapter count has grown from 3 to 4, so we're not at the finish line yet! I ended up writing a lot more than I planned because the boys keep being a menace.
> 
> I can't say this enough - thank you for the incredible feedback on this fic. I hope you'll enjoy this - it's full of ridiculous moments, hot moments, and torturing Armie. We all know how much I love the latter.
> 
> A big thank you to Gina (who was a doll and read through this chapter AND screamed at me, lol) and Linds (who is always cheering for this fic and motivates me to write it faster).

 

Armie stopped counting the days since ‘the incident’ a while ago. Frankly, it doesn’t matter how long it’s been as each day in hell feels like infinity, and that is exactly where he resides. Not only is Timmy’s beautiful lithe body – _no, no, his completely average-looking skinny form_ – stealing both his attention and breath while he’s awake, but Timmy has also crawled into his dreams, deep into his subconscious, and is refusing to leave.

He’s never considered Timmy to be a saint, but his dream equivalent is a menace, _a sinner_ , luring a peacefully sleeping Armie into sex dungeons, offering to be used _,_ demanding to be taken. He’s been the most perfect obedient boy, his delicate little prince, a shameless creature of lust.

_‘Want you to fill me up, Armie,’ Timmy breathes hot against his neck, pulls Armie’s earlobe between his teeth before continuing, ‘or would you rather come on my face? See it cover my cheeks, my mouth. I know you love my mouth; you always tell me when you fuck into it.’_

_Armie just nods, still paralyzed in his dreams. Unable to take and wreck Timmy, much like in real life._

_‘Come on my face, Armie,” Timmy purrs, ‘It would be like icing on cake. Am I your dessert? Don’t you want to decorate me?’_

Armie always wakes up before anything happens, anything except torture, that is. It’s torture in his sleep, torture while he’s awake. He doesn’t remember the last time he woke up without a raging hard-on; he’s started calling himself the Wood Chopper because _all he does is woodwork_ and it’s only a matter of time before his dick actually falls off. Sometimes he doesn’t even bother with it, simply glares at it as angrily as it does Armie.

“Go away,” he huffs, sounding completely miserable, “just go away, please.”

He knows he has to talk to Timmy at one point; he can’t go around having sad, unwanted, and very clearly visible boners throughout the promo tour. Yet unlike his cock, the topic doesn’t seem to be an easy one to bring up.

He picks up his phone before putting it down. Picks it up again, opens his texts.

“Timmy,” he starts, “we really need to talk.”

Deletes it.

“I found your toys. I can’t continue to live like this.”

Deletes.

“I can’t stop thinking about your dildo.”

He snorts at the sentence, but it sounds defeated. He deletes the text again and chucks the phone across the bed. Lets his body limply fall on the mattress. He groans into the sheets, waits the _longest possible time he can_ before getting some air.

Whispers, “Fuck,” and buries his face into the pillow once more.

***

Armie doesn’t actively think about _it_ before– before that darn Sunday brunch where all the drinks are alcoholic and served with dainty cocktail cherries.

Armie’s down to his third drink, and he may or may not have asked the waiters to hold the juice. Timmy is down to his tenth cocktail _cherry_. Armie knows because he counted each and every one of them finding their way into Timmy’s rosy pink mouth.

Apparently, Timmy loves cocktail cherries. Pops them (both his own and Armie's) into his mouth with a wide grin, sucks them between his lips. Plays with them. _Sticky, sugary._ Blinks his innocent eyes at Armie, licks the tips of his fingers to remove any syrupy residue. Licks his lips, the corners of his mouth before pulling his pouty lower lip between little white teeth, _all the while being completely oblivious_.

His fucking mouth. His fucking tongue. His little fucking teeth. And most of all, _his fucking oral fixation._

Frankly, it’s not like Armie didn’t _know_ before. Oh, _he knew_. It would’ve been impossible not to with Timmy sucking on his lips as if they were the sweetest treat in the whole world – and they were, _Armie knew; he had tasted them before_.

But he certainly hadn’t analysed it before. Not in detail. Not while staring at Timmy playing with his eager rosy mouth. It’s as if that mouth was saying ‘I suck cock really well’ without any words whatsoever.

That’s when the following thought hits Armie like a brick in the fucking face: _What if Timmy puts the dildo in his mouth? Wraps his cherry lips around it? How far down his throat does he take it?_ A tremor runs through his body; the sausage he’s holding on his fork shivers along.

"Is the sausage good?" Timmy asks just then.

_No. No. No, you will not eat sausage right now, I will–_

_Timmy I will fucking die. You need to stop moving your mouth altogether. Can you cover it? Can I cover it? With my hand? Restrict your– no, no, no, no._

Armie tries to keep his calm. He chews on the sausage, makes a face although it's fucking superb. "Dry,” he says dryly, “Don't recommend."

Timmy sighs, "Sausages are _always_ dry at these things. I'll just get the eggs then."

He sounds so sincere and heartbroken that Armie has to suppress laughter. He would laugh, really, if the situation wasn’t so fucking tragic.

***

“So, you’re going out tonight?” Timmy asks, straightens his pink t-shirt a third time, rocks back on his heels.

“Yeah, Nick’s in town, so I promised to grab dinner with him around 6.”

“Yeah, yeah, man. That sounds good. Say hi to Nick for me.”

“Sure you don’t wanna join us? We’re going to that Thai place you loved last time.”

“Oh, no, I’m just _–_ ,“ Timmy looks down, huffs out a little laugh, “I have plans for tonight.”

What kind of _fucking plans, Timmy?_

“Going out?”

“Nah, I’m just, you know, gonna catch up on some sleep.”

Timmy hasn’t looked at him in a full minute; he’s still staring down, one of the corners of his mouth curved up in a smile. He’s _giddy_ but trying to hide it, yet he’s never managed to hide _shit_ from Armie because his face always screams the truth. _(Well, in all fairness, at no point did his face scream ‘I fuck myself with various inanimate objects’.)_

Timmy looks like the definition of a boy that is up to no good, mischievous and _naughty_. He looks out of control, chewing on his lips with a hidden smile, and Armie feels his fist tighten in response; _wants to push Timmy down on the bed, rip his stupidly tight pants off and spank him with the palm of his large hand until Timmy’s beautiful ivory cheeks are tinted dark pink, until he’s a whimpering mess of ‘don’t’ and ‘please’ and ‘more’, until he tells Armie exactly what he’s planning and –_

Armie blinks, shakes his head in what feels like an aftershock, forces his fists open and places his palms flat against the table. Hums something that sounds vaguely like approval although he barely registered what Timmy said; he leans on his hands, stretches his fingers and forces himself to ‘ _breathe through it – close your eyes and focus on the small sounds around you, whether it’s the rustle of the leaves outside, whether it’s the distant bustle of the street, or your grandmother’s clock softly ticking in the cupboard; you are present, you are one with the –‘_

yet he can only hear Timmy’s breathing, and Timmy’s voice because apparently he’s saying something but it’s in French, and _Armie can’t fucking work with this and honestly fuck this stupid meditation app that he downloaded – Peaceful Serenity his fucking ass; he has that shit memorized by now and it still doesn’t help when he needs it to, and he can’t fucking focus on the ticking of his grandma’s clock at a time like this and frankly his grandma never gave him a clock at all and, oh god, his grandma gave the clock to his brother, what does that mean? He’s never thought of this before, but it suddenly feels painfully important and –_

– _ohhh, the stupid thing actually seems to be working_.

When Armie looks up, he sees Timmy fiddling with the curtain, twisting a string of fabric between the fingers of his left hand while holding the phone to his ear with his right one. He’s clearly talking to someone and thankfully missing Armie’s deeply disturbing existential crisis that started with thoughts of spanking Timmy and ended with his grandma’s clock.

Timmy finishes the call and turns back to him, “Sorry, you were saying something? Pauline always calls at the worst time, I swear.” He leans against the windowsill, brings his fingers up to his mouth in a nervous movement. He bites at the pad of his index finger, dragging his little teeth over it before nibbling at his nail.

Armie looks at Timmy’s lips move, soft and luscious against the delicate digit; at his tongue licking over the flesh abused by little nips of teeth. Armie’s chest feels hollow, his pants uncomfortably tight around his stirring cock. He swallows, wets his lips before speaking.

“I was–,” scratches his chin, tries to think about anything other than his cock, “just saying how I never got my grandmother’s cock.”

Timmy stops in his tracks and his eyes pop open, “You never what?”

“Huh?”

“Like a rooster?” Timmy looks inquisitive.

“What the hell are you talking about? There was no rooster on the clock.”

Timmy snorts. “Aahh, a _clock_ ,” he enunciates, bites at his lip to hold back laughter; fails, and bursts into a fit of giggles.

Armie simply stands there, completely bewildered. “You okay there?”

Timmy grips the windowsill, laughing so hard Armie can see all of his teeth.

“You said–,” Timmy wheezes, “you said cock.”

Armie inhales sharply, “What?”

Armie covers his mouth with his hand, doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry because he just said _grandma’s cock,_ but he’s also _still hard_ , and that is honestly the most mortifying combination he can think of. He feels his face burn up within a matter of seconds; he's so red he might as well function as a stop sign.

Suddenly there’s a gentle tugging at his hand and Timmy’s face is really close to his own. “I can’t believe you said cock,” Timmy is smiling so hard it looks _painful_ – the skin around his eyes wrinkled, nose scrunched, cheeks and mouth cramped. “Cock,” he says again through clenched teeth, beaming, and wraps his arms around the taller man, rests his head on Armie’s shoulder.

“Grandma’s cock,” Timmy whispers and starts laughing again; Armie feels his skinny body shake from the strength of it. At the same time, Armie’s own body has never been _this_ confused – all he hears is Timmy say ‘cock’, fucking _feels_ Timmy whisper it against his neck, imagines his soft mouth parting to say the indecent word. “Cock, cock, cock,” Timmy keeps repeating.

He tries to hold Timmy, but _further away_ , push him into the casual bro zone where Timmy wouldn’t feel his awkward boner that is definitely not your casual bro stuff. At the same time, he realizes, he _wants Timmy to know how hard he is for him_ , wants Timmy to _take care of it_ , wants himself to take care of Timmy, too.

Armie pushes the boy away, gently, smiles awkwardly, still a blush on his cheeks, says he just remembered he had an errand to run before dinner. He grabs his keys and flees, leaving a slightly confused, still-giggly Timmy _with his plans._

Timmy’s plans, Armie is sure, include: _going to his adjoining room, lying down on his soft bed, touching himself. Fucking himself. Making himself come._

Armie almost lets out a sob as the door clicks shut after him.

***

Armie cancels the dinner. Not because he isn’t hungry – it’s just not food he’s starving for. He’s too _on edge_ to be around people now; he’ll either punch or fuck someone, and frankly, he can’t afford to do either. Especially not with Nick.

Instead, he grabs a pizza (the Ultimate Meat Lovers’ – _he does love meat_ ) because he figures he’ll need sustenance at one point, and goes back to the hotel. He arrives a little before 7, flicks on the lights, and that’s when he hears it.

 _A moan_.

A second one.

A third one, loud, throaty, clearly coming from the adjoining room. The room where Timmy is.

Armie drops the pizza on the floor without giving a single fuck; his fingers feel like wet noodles, and wet noodles can’t hold shit. Frankly, he can barely hold his shit together, can barely force down a scream because he’s sure he’s living a weird porn version of his life, or the universe is playing a cruel prank on him.

He can’t help himself, though. Practically runs up to the door where the barrier of sound is the thinnest, leans against it to listen in, _to hear more and hear it better, clearer._

And hear better he does; hears the bed creak, hears Timmy let out a sharp high-pitched sound. Armie involuntarily clunks his head against the door.

_It’s fucking loud._

The noise in the other room stops.

Armie’s breathing stops, too. He almost jumps away from the door, _panics._ Tries to salvage the situation by – _what would make a loud noise? What would make a –_ knocking on the door, once, twice. Waits, although he would give a _t least_ one of his kidneys to disappear from the room, from the hotel, from the universe.

Just as the ground begins to swallow him whole, Timmy opens the door. He seems out of breath and his T-shirt seems to be on backwards. Armie notices that some of Timmy’s curls are sweaty, sticking to his temples. He wants to put his mouth, tongue on them.

There’s a blush on Timmy’s cheeks, high and rosy; his voice shaky and on edge when he says, “Uh, I thought you’d be–,” swallows, “out.”

Armie watches Timmy’s Adam’s apple move, feels the need to swallow as well, but he’s physically unable to – his mouth is dry like a desert, he might as well be trying to swallow sand. Instead, he says as confidently, as casually as he can, “Change of plans. Nick was– Nick is feeling under the weather. Wanna– watch a movie? If you’re– not too tired, that is?"

Timmy scratches the back of his head and opens his mouth long before speaking.

“Yeah, sure.” He sounds uncertain. “Come in.”

Timmy opens the door wider, makes space for Armie to get through. He steps into the adjoining room on shaky legs, _nervous, heart pumping viciously in his chest._ He knows what Timmy was doing, there’s no question. He was playing with himself. He was _taking care of himself._

Armie needs a drink. Needs a drink bad. Needs a few drinks probably. Drinks that are stronger than his thirst. He glances behind him at the only tall drink of water that would be enough – Timmy seems to be looking for something. His eyes are running over all surfaces in the living room. He seems as nervous as Armie feels, anxious. Bites his lip.

"Something missing?" Armie asks.

Timmy seems distracted, doesn't hear him the first time.

"Are you looking for something?" Armie asks again.

"Mm, no– uh, just don't know where I left– my phone?" And that is definitely a lie because firstly, his voice got all high, secondly, his phone is right there on the table. Armie points out the latter.

"Oh, great." Timmy smiles yet he doesn’t sound pleased at all. Armie picks up the phone, throws it to Timmy and swaps down on the couch, "So what are we wat–", but he's cut off by Timmy's loud gasp.

He looks back at him and Timmy's body fucking convulses, his thin frame doubling over; he drops his phone and grabs hold of a nearby cupboard, desperately clutching its surface with long fingers.

"Get up, Armie," he sounds pained, panicked. Armie just blinks at him, confused, frozen on the spot.

 _"God, is Timmy hurt?" he thinks, but Timmy doesn't sound hurt; he sounds overwhelmed by_ –

The boy squeezes his eyes shut, his breathing becoming ragged, more so by the second.

"Get the fuck up," Timmy practically howls and Armie's brain comes back online, so he does just that. Gets the fuck up to rush to Timmy when he suddenly sees a small black _thing_ peeking from under a cushion. He must've sat on it.

He barely hears Timmy's, " _Don't–"_ before he picks it up. A remote. A small black remote. With three buttons on it: "+", "-" and "o".

Armie just fucking blinks at it. He's 31. He's lived a life. _He's seen shit, okay._ And he knows exactly what it is. He does. It's just that–

His brain doesn't–. It doesn't–. Because all of this would add up to–

"Turn it off," Timmy pleads, voice raspy, small.

Armie clicks on "o" immediately, his body acting without his brain's contribution.

Timmy lets out a shuddery breath.

Neither of them says anything, the only sound in the room Timmy's heavy breathing. Armie can hear him try to rein it in, but–

He doesn't try wrapping his head around it; instead looks at Timmy, looks at his flushed cheeks, his normally rosy lips dark red. He looks _wrecked_ , _ashamed,_ fingers still cramped against the cupboard. He’s staring at the ground, which Armie is thankful for because his own cock is straining against the zipper of his jeans, his cheeks are _flaming,_ his whole fucking body feels _hot_ , skin _too tight._

Timmy puts out his palm, his delicate hand shaking.

“Give me the remote, please,” he sounds deflated, voice barely above a whisper. Still ashamed, afraid that Armie will judge him.

_He wouldn’t. Not ever._

Especially because Armie’s brain has left the building, he’s all _cock_ and pent-up sexual frustration. So, he does what anyone would in his position; says, “No,” and pushes the “+” button.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I had Timmy wear a plug. I have no regrets.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the long wait; I had some major projects to finish that completely drained me of any and all creativity for months. But.. here we are now with an update!
> 
> P.S. I love and appreciate the exceptionally positive feedback I've received on this fic. If I haven't replied to your comments on the previous chapter (yet!), then please know that I have read and ADORE all of them, but to motivate myself to publish faster I don't allow myself to reply before a new update is out. So, expect replies very soon :).
> 
> P.S. (2) While this story is supposed to be fun and lighthearted (as the tags say, lol), it aims to offer a bit more than just smut, and in the interests of keeping the characters' reactions authentic and believable, we will dip our toes in some (light) angst in this chapter. (Aka Armie Is Dumb.) But no worries, this fic will end on a fun note in the next and (probably) last chapter. Hope you'll enjoy this!
> 
> Thank you to Gina who read over this mess ages ago before I decided to rewrite bits of it, and to Linds for calming my anxious ass down.

 

Armie can physically _feel_ the last remnants of his self-control disappear, dissipate into thin air to the soundtrack of his heart punching out of his chest. He hears himself say, “No,” and suddenly he’s pushing the ‘on’ button on the fucking remote because he’s been on the edge for days, for weeks, _months_ , and he’s just a man, a fucking man that _can’t resist_ and, frankly, he’s not even sure he wants to. Not anymore. _(Did he ever, really?)_

Armie sees Timmy’s green eyes and his _plush_ _red lips_ open in surprise as his words hit him a mere fraction of a second before the vibration does. Timmy folds in on himself, _moans, fucking moans – a sharp involuntary sound escaping from the back of his throat._ He slaps one hand across his lips, the other still clutching the cupboard, thin digits turning white from the force of it.

“You opened the door to me, let me into your room, just stood there _wearing a fucking plug, Timmy?”_ Armie takes slow, deliberate steps towards the boy, his voice strong and calculated although his insides are _boiling_. It sounds like he’s there to scold, ready to _punish_ his naughty boy _._ He’s gripping the remote as if his life depends on it, his hands shaking, his whole body shaking from the force of his want. He could break Timmy in half with just the snap of his fingers.

And once he starts to speak, he can’t fucking stop. It’s an avalanche of _months_ of pent-up frustration, of _guessing_ what Timmy does but never knowing, of Timmy _taunting_ him in his dreams without any release. He hates him. He hates this. He’s never been this enraged and this fucking _horny_.

“Did you want me to find them? Did you? _Your collection of toys, Timmy,”_ he’s twisting the remote in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the surface, hovering over the “+” button.

“I haven’t been able to sleep, to eat, to fucking _function_. I keep thinking about how you fuck yourself with them.”

He’s hovering over Timmy now, so close they would breathe the same air if it wasn’t for Timmy’s head bowed down, his thin – _and beautiful, fragile, fucking divine –_ body overwhelmed, bent over. He’s panting, trying to hold the sounds in, looking anywhere except at Armie who leans down so that his lips touch Timmy’s cheek, his sweaty curls.

“Have you fucked yourself with them?” Armie’s voice is barely above a whisper against Timmy’s soft skin as he grips the boy’s waist with one hand, pushes down on the “+” button once more with his other hand.

Timmy makes a soft whiny sound, almost chokes on his breath as he gives up control and sags against Armie, grips his shoulders instead of the cupboard, presses his fingers deep into Armie’s skin. It hurts deliciously.

“Tell me what you’ve done, Timmy, or I’ll have to push the button again. I’m not sure you can take it. _Or can you?_ ”

Armie can feel Timmy’s heart beating against his ribcage, feel his short, urgent breaths against his neck, feel his cock hard against his thigh. He’s a fucking mess and Armie would _devour him,_ untangle him, take him apart until he’d be a mess no more.

“I pl- play with them. What are you–?” A breathless whimper escapes his lips, “Fuck, I’m really– sensitive there, Armie, you need to–.”

But Armie doesn’t _hear_ what he _needs to_ because he crushes his lips against Timmy’s and licks into his mouth with no reserve. He tastes like sweetness, a memory, a forbidden fruit. Armie pushes his thin frame against the wall behind him, covering Timmy’s body entirely with his own. He places his hands on either side of the boy’s head, pulls away for a mere second.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, I just can’t,” he breathes against Timmy’s wet, parted lips, “It’s driving me insane, Timmy, I need to–.”

He yanks open the button of Timmy’s tight black jeans, rips open the zipper, pushes the pants down just enough to fit his hand in, slip it between Timmy’s small, round cheeks. He can feel the base of the plug, feel the rhythmic vibrations of the small toy against his fingers as he pushes down on it, thrusting it deeper into Timmy.

“Oh fuck, fuuuck,” the boy moans softly, desperately as he rubs his still-clothed cock against Armie’s thigh, mouths at Armie’s jaw. That’s when Armie drops the remote to shove his other hand into Timmy’s boxers and starts working his cock, fast and hard because _slow and_ _patient_ bear no meaning to him anymore.

“You’re _so wet, Timmy, so fucking wet. Such a messy boy.”_

 _“Oh god,”_ Timmy sobs against his neck, “ _That’s_ – _I’m_ –.”

“Who knew you were such a little _deviant, everyone’s favourite sweet and gentle_ _Timothée Chalamet_? Who knew you were so _ruined?_ ”

Within a matter of seconds Armie’s palm is _flooded_ _with Timmy’s release,_ his ears flooded with Timmy’s subdued, whimpered sounds.

“Oh fuck, Armie, Armie, _Armie_ ,” Timmy whispers right after, lax against Armie’s body, mouth dark pink and so fucking soft against Armie’s collarbone. He tightens his fingers once more, pushes blunt nails into Armie’s skin, “Please turn it off, Armie, I get so– I get so sensitive, Armie, please turn–.”

Armie’s not sure how his body _moves,_ he doesn’t understand how he _makes it move,_ but he does. Pulls his hands from Timmy’s boxers, picks up the remote and pushes “o”. His heart seems to be pounding in his ears, his throat, everywhere except his chest because that’s where Timmy is, that’s what Timmy is leaning on. Everything seems to be happening in real time again, and real time feels _slow._

They’re both panting, the air filled with the scent of sex, of _come_. Armie looks down at his hand – at his come-covered hand, _at his hand that is covered in Timmy’s come_ , and suddenly feels his shoulders _throb_ from where Timmy had gripped them during–

Clarity strikes him, if only for a moment.

“ _Oh my god, Timmy_.”

He shakes his head violently as if that would _wake him up_ because this can’t be real, this _can’t be._ He steps away from the still-breathless boy who sways from the sudden withdrawal, “Oh god, I’m so– fuck, god, I’m so sorry, I don’t–.”

He doesn’t even look back at Timmy as he retreats like a wounded animal, doesn’t hear Timmy’s confused, “Armie, wait, what are you–“.

He shuts the door to his adjoining room with a loud thud; leans his back, head against it.

“Fuck, fuck, what the fuck,” he keeps repeating to himself, body still shaking from the adrenalin. _Who’s the mess now?_

_He had sex with Timmy._

_Sex. With. Timmy. His. Timmy._

_Wait. Do hand jobs count?_

_“A job is a job,” he remembers his teacher saying, but that was in 5 th grade social studies class and definitely not about those kinds of jobs, so why the fuck is his brain being the most unhelpful–_

_Yeah, it was definitely sex. Timmy made sex noises._

_God, Timmy made sex noises. Armie didn’t know Timmy would make noises like– like that._

_But now he knows._

_Because they had sex. Because Timmy came. All over his hand. He made Timmy come._

_He didn’t even properly ask Timmy._

_He didn’t even properly ask Timmy._

_He just–_

_Took._

_Called him a deviant. Called him ruined._

_Took._

“Fuck, shit, fucking fuck,” Armie hits his fist against the door, “You fucking _moron, you absolute fucking idiot.”_

He’s fucking _furious,_ but he’s also furiously fucking _horny_ and _still hard_ and _will this torture never end?_ He could _cry,_ he _would cry_ from the desperation, but–

 _But he can’t stop thinking about how Timmy moaned_ , how his cock felt in Armie’s hand, how his dark red lips parted in arousal, parted for Armie, and how he couldn’t catch his breath right before coming, struggled to make any noise besides soft, relentless whimpers.

“No, no,” Armie keeps chanting it like a mantra, but it doesn’t help, doesn’t help that he wants to–

He closes his eyes and all he can see is Timmy, _Timmy_ ; he can smell Timmy, hear Timmy, so he brings his come-covered hand to his mouth and steals a taste, sucks his index finger into his mouth _to taste Timmy, to have Timmy present for all of his senses._

He unbuckles his belt with his clean hand, flicks open the buttons on his jeans, tears them and his briefs down to his knees. It feels downright _shameless_ , the act _unspeakable_ , but he revels in Timmy’s taste before gripping his cock and starting to fuck his fist slowly, then faster, _harder, using Timmy’s come as lube_. He imagines that instead of his own hand, he’s fucking Timmy, _fucking Timmy for the second round, the boy spread out on his bed, all used and ruined, just taking it._

Armie comes so hard he almost blacks out, his knees giving out, his whole body giving out. He slides down to the floor with his back still against the door and looks at his palm covered in both of their come, his and Timmy’s, mixed, combined into one (‘ _as they should be_ ,’ whispers the little devil on his shoulder). He fights the urge to taste that, too.

He feels as wrecked as Timmy looked mere minutes ago, as wrecked as Timmy sounded, _felt in his arms._ Yet as he comes down from the high of his orgasm, _he crashes_ , falls deep into guilt with no arousal to ease the way out anymore.

_I invaded his privacy. I touched him without asking._

_I would’ve made him beg. I would’ve._

_I would’ve fucked him. Fucked him until he didn’t know his own name. Fucked him until he only knew mine, until he sobbed mine, until he was nothing more than mine._

He hits the back of his head against the door once, twice; doesn’t give a fuck anymore that Timmy can hear the sound. He scrambles to get his phone, opens his texts to Timmy.

_You’ll drive him away, you fucking idiot. He didn’t ask for this.You touched him without permission. He didn't ask for this.  
_

“I’m sorry I touched you.”

Armie’s hands are shaking as he hits ‘send’. He stares at the screen, waiting for a reply.

_He thinks of you as a brother. You fucking idiot._

Two minutes pass before he hears his phone ping. Two minutes too long. He counted every second.

“Grow up.”

_What?_

Another ping: “I’ll see you at midnight.”

Armie blinks at the message, opens his mouth and closes it again; absentmindedly wipes his come-covered hand against the door and _cringes,_ because frankly, that’s _disgusting._

His phone pings for the third time.

“To clarify, in my room. And _tomorrow_ at midnight because I’m fucking sore. Don’t be late; might not be able to open the door.”

Armie gulps audibly. He doesn’t trust his dumb shaky fingers, or his dumb lizard brain, or his dumb a _nything_ , so he just replies: “k”.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ An extra-informative visual of Timmy's vibrating toy, lol. Enjoy. ](https://www.snapdeal.com/product/vibrating-butt-plug-for-men/627940540444)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please make my day by screaming in the comments.
> 
> @workslikeacharmie on tumblr


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